The Empty Birdcage

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “Molested her skeins, sir. Her balls of yarn! And pilfered her straight pins to boot. And indeed, there they are!” she added very nearly triumphantly, pointing to his creation on the wall. “Master Sherlock, we simply cannot have sewing baskets rummaged through—!”

  “Mrs. McAllister, I will gladly pay for new straight pins and… and skeins,” he interrupted, but Mrs. McAllister cried out:

  “The flock!”

  “Pardon?”

  “The pins have ruined it!” she declared. “Do you see there? The flock is ruined!”

  Sherlock sighed. “Nonsense, Mrs. McAllister. They are straight pins, not spikes. Surely the flock has survived worse catastrophes.”

  “But Mr. Holmes had it made especially,” she explained piteously. “Le Pais de Sérénité… direct from Paris!”

  “That is a greater condemnation of the Parisians than of the straight pins,” he said. “And if there is permanent damage done to the wallpaper, I shall make restitution to my brother. Now. Is there anything else?”

  It was clear to Sherlock that Mrs. McAllister had more to add, much more, but that she could not very well ride roughshod over her employer’s brother. With as much dignity as she could muster, she answered, “No, sir, that is all,” and then ducked back out, shutting the door behind her.

  “Bother,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath before resuming his work.

  * * *

  Mycroft had barely opened his front door when he was assailed by his housekeeper with some convoluted tale about flock and pins and skeins.

  “No, Mrs. McAllister, I do not fault your reaction,” he assured her, which was quickly followed by: “Yes, Mrs. McAllister, you were perfectly within your rights to come to the aid of staff.”

  This as he went upstairs, Mrs. McAllister in his wake, all the while wondering what new calamity Sherlock had inflicted upon the household.

  Sherlock’s door was ajar. His back was to the door, and he was lighting a lamp. On the far wall Mycroft noticed a hodgepodge, as if one toddler had set about to do English embroidery while another dabbled in Japanese art.

  Mycroft turned and smiled at the whey-faced Mrs. McAllister behind him. “It is quite all right,” he said, “I shall take it from here.”

  The moment she departed, Sherlock turned to Mycroft and grinned. “So? When do I start?” he said.

  “That all depends,” Mycroft said, “on how soon you will cease to gloat.”

  “Am I indeed to begin?” he asked, the grin replaced by awe.

  “Yes. With certain stipulations.”

  “Anything. But first, come in. Come in and sit. And tell me all you know,” Sherlock prompted eagerly.

  Mycroft deftly avoided the rocker, making a beeline for a straight-back chair. Sherlock perched himself on the edge of the nearby desk and hovered over him like a raptor while Mycroft repeated what he had been told by the Queen.

  “Bledlow?” Sherlock repeated, puzzled, when informed of the location. “I have investigated the names of all of the other towns and have come up wanting, but there is something in this name, something familiar…”

  “You recall it solely because you studied it in fourth or fifth form, and—given your proclivities—it made an impression upon you,” Mycroft said. “The Doomsday Book records the original name as ‘Bledelai,’ or ‘Bloody Hill.’”

  “Yes!” Sherlock cried.

  “No,” Mycroft countered. “Though evocative, it has to do with some musty battle between Danes and Saxons, the details of which are not important to your research. For I doubt that even your punctilious murderer could hold quite so ancient a grudge.”

  Sherlock bit his lower lip and nervously chewed upon his thumbnail. “Did you enquire if there was anyone who could profit from Elise’s death?” he asked.

  “Of course, and no,” Mycroft said. “Neither her mother, nor the count, from whom her mother is estranged, nor any relatives near or far, stand to gain a sou. She died just outside of Bledlow,” he continued. “Her mother’s people owned a mill, they have a small ancestral home there which the mother inherited, and the girl lived with her. Eighteen years of age and just completed her education. Given family connections through her stepfather, she was expected to make a decent enough match, though there was not yet a groom upon the horizon. At the time of her death she was in the garden, on a swing, reading a book.”

  “Rather a prosaic ending, no?” Sherlock opined.

  “Not so prosaic. When she fell forward, the swing hit her on the back of the neck with such force that the cradle cracked in two,” Mycroft said.

  “Truly? But that makes no sense whatsoever,” Sherlock complained. “Who rides a swing so violently while reading?”

  “Precisely. I assume that the killer, after attacking her in whatever manner he did, pushed the swing into her neck so as to hide something. Perhaps, unlike the others, he had left a mark on her, one that would bring us closer to understanding mode of death.”

  “I see. I am to assume, therefore,” Sherlock said, “that, other than the blow to the back of the neck, there were no other marks on her?”

  “Skinned knees from the fall,” Mycroft replied with a shrug. “But no.”

  “What about marks on the grass? Footprints and the like?”

  “How would the Queen be apprised of that, Sherlock?”

  Sherlock drew a breath. “So I am really to do this?” he asked again in a small voice.

  “As I said, with stipulations.”

  “Such as…?” Sherlock hopped off the edge of the desk and began shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Because, if you don’t mind my saying,” he went on, “you appear to be altogether too sanguine about all of this. What makes you thus? Another mystery, perhaps? One that is more to your liking? Does my involvement free you from your obligation to the Queen? Oh, it is perfectly fine with me if that is the truth of it, for I am gratified that you would place such trust in me.”

  “I know that you are capable of this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “The stipulations all involve your safety. I would rather not see you hurt.”

  “I shall not be, I can all but guarantee it!” Sherlock went to his wall chart. “You see here? There is a pattern to the killer’s victims, and he is much too methodical to go half-cocked and murder someone who does not fit his parameters. For it would sully whatever point he is attempting to convey.”

  “Ah. And what are his parameters?” Mycroft asked. “For I cannot make them out.”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Nor can I,” he confessed. “Not yet; but that is what I aim to find out! Brother, you will not regret this,” he added, his face creasing into a grin again. “It is the start of a whole new life for me!”

  16

  THAT NIGHT, MYCROFT AND DOUGLAS SAT AT THE TABLE in the homely kitchen at Nickolus House, drinking a proper glass of brandy in proper brandy glasses. The Baccarat was a gift from Mycroft; the Cognac hailed from Douglas’s shop. Mycroft had once shamed him for keeping nothing but swill in the cupboards, and Douglas was determined to have something better on hand for his friend’s visits.

  He poured another round of the Maison Gautier XO. Mycroft inhaled the heady aroma and continued his tale of the Queen, and her unexpected involvement in the Fire Four Eleven Murders.

  “As with the others, the girl, Elise, was found with not a mark upon her.”

  “I wonder,” Douglas mumbled.

  “Why, Douglas!” Mycroft exclaimed, smiling. “Do I detect a note of suspicion in your voice?”

  “Why should my being suspicious make you giddy? I mean only that in these remote locales, neither the coroner, if there is one, nor local law enforcement has a great deal of practice with murder. Is it possible that the means of death could have been visible all along, albeit not to them?”

  “Not only possible but probable,” Mycroft admitted. “But since all have been buried, no use crying over spilt milk, as it were.”

  Douglas lifted his brow in surprise. “Elise has not been burie
d, has she?”

  “No, but her funeral is to be a quiet affair two days from now, and the Queen will allow nothing but the most cursory examination.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I asked.”

  “Mycroft, really!” Douglas exclaimed.

  “What social faux pas did I commit now?”

  “Well, for mercy’s sake, the girl was related to her, however obliquely,” Douglas said. “The Queen cared enough about her to keep her portrait—”

  “Oh, I see what you are jawing on about! What was I to do, Douglas; allow an appropriate time of mourning to elapse and then send Victoria a monogrammed note, requesting an autopsy? It is never pleasant to be asked.”

  “No. It is not,” Douglas said quietly.

  He had been required to do just that for his late wife and son, to ensure that they had indeed been killed in a riot by an angry mob, and not by some other, less dramatic means. It was a detail of his life, one of the few, of which Mycroft was not aware, for there was no reason to cause anyone else pain.

  “I have mentioned, have I not, that Sherlock shall be holding the reins of this?” Mycroft asked.

  “I believe you went out of your way to not mention it until now,” Douglas said. “Why on earth would you put your only brother in such jeopardy?”

  Mycroft sighed and poured himself a glass of Cognac, his third. “I did tell you that I came home to find ‘my only brother’ ensconced in the guest quarters,” Mycroft replied. “That he cleverly found a way to get himself expelled from Downing, without my being able to remedy it. Oh, and have you met my only brother? Surely you know by now that he shall find a way to pursue this, whether I allow it or not! And unless you have a better notion as to what to do with him, I do not need guilt heaped upon guilt.”

  “A better notion as to what to do with him?” Douglas repeated. “No, surely I do not. Sherlock remains an enigma to me. Forgive me. You care for him; I assume you know best.”

  “Nonsense. I know no such thing,” Mycroft grumbled. “What I do know is that you and I will pursue the disappearance of Bingwen Shi and allow Sherlock to do a preliminary investigation of the Fire Four Eleven Murders. I believe he needs to feel that this is his case, not mine, and I would rather wait to participate until such a time as our presence is needed. And, since the Queen is set on providing our carriage and expenses—”

  Douglas smiled incredulously. “You mentioned that I was going along?”

  “Well of course I did,” Mycroft exclaimed, a touch defensively. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Oh, I can think of several reasons…”

  “As I was saying,” Mycroft continued, “since Her Majesty is set on providing for the two of us, I shall give Huan the assignment of driver and bodyguard to Sherlock—or shall you find fault with that idea as well?”

  “Not at all. It is the wisest decision you have made yet. Huan is the best protector I can think of. So long as he does not murder Sherlock in his sleep, all should go swimmingly. I take it that he is on his way back from Port of Spain?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Mycroft assented with a nod.

  “Ah, he sails on the Countess, then,” Douglas said immediately. For he was familiar with the course of every ship that hailed from the Caribbean. “Superb accommodations. That was kind of you, Mycroft.”

  “I have my moments,” his friend said.

  Douglas paused. “Will Sherlock go along with the plan? He will not be pleased to go about in a fancy carriage with Huan as his nursemaid when trains would be quicker and more convenient.”

  “Oh indeed, it shall prove more cumbersome, but that is the point: to tarry the entire process, while making certain that he cannot easily give Huan the slip. He also asked that I facilitate contact with the police, especially if they or the local coroner still have the body when he arrives.”

  “What is there to examine when there are no marks?” Douglas asked. “And surely any familiar poisons would have been revealed by now. Besides, can you facilitate such visits?”

  “I have a passing acquaintance with one coroner. He works in London and environs, so if the murderer strikes close by, I might have a shot. Otherwise, to whom would I request this favor, and what would I say? ‘My nineteen-year-old brother, who was expelled from Cambridge one month before the end of term, and who has no formal training in either medicine or police work, would like to examine your most publicly sensitive corpse’?”

  “Surely you could gain access, if you tried. Did he ask?”

  “Of course not. The last thing Sherlock wants is for me to get the glory, even a portion thereof. Which factors in perfectly, for I do not wish to traipse about, ogling bodies.”

  The two sat for a moment in the stillness that can sometimes transpire between long-time friends, but to Douglas it felt brittle, for he had a query that he could no longer hold back.

  “Tell me, since you are so fond of the Queen,” Douglas said in a tone that sounded a tad too icy to his ears, “how do you justify using a letter of hers to attempt to destroy her cousin, the count? Surely it would wound her to her core to know of it.”

  He could see that his question had caught Mycroft off guard.

  “Yes, I suppose when you put it that way… Then again, you and I have different goals, Douglas,” Mycroft said after a pause. “We both wish to eradicate evil, but whereas you will mete out justice when you can, I make it my vocation. And although I well know that you are not one for ends justifying means, you must trust that my motives are neither petty nor self-serving.”

  “No, for then you would be insufferable… and you are not that,” Douglas said. “I simply wish you would not place ethics on the shelf whenever they are inconvenient to your larger goals.”

  “What have I to fear, when I can count on you to take them from that shelf, give them a good buffing, and place them under my nose?” Mycroft replied with a smile. “In any event, we have yet another puzzle, albeit small,” he continued. “On the way here I called upon Bingwen Shi’s family. A very proper family, quite courteous. But they had nothing of import to tell me. They are insular, barely speak the language. I warrant that if the future groom had anything to hide, he would do his utmost to deceive them, first and foremost. And so, I asked where I might find Ai Lin, for she is not so easily deceived—”

  “Is that wise?” Douglas interrupted. “To place yourself in such a vulnerable position?”

  “You wonder if I can bear to see her again,” Mycroft replied. “A fair question, but since her father and Shi’s family are of no help, I must speak directly to her if I mean to make headway. Besides, all I can think of at the moment is Vizily Zaharoff and what he might have to do with this case.”

  “Ah, and so this dealer in arms has taken on more import than a woman with whom you were in love?” Douglas asked. He realized that he sounded every bit as skeptical as he felt. He pushed away his snifter of Cognac, for he had had enough.

  Mycroft leaned his arms on the table, staring at Douglas as if attempting to persuade him simply by force of will.

  “Kindly note that Prussia has just decimated France in a major war. She is strong, and she is close by, with a larger population than Britain’s and four times the number of troops. She needs arms—”

  “Mycroft, it has been two years. You cannot continue to refer to her as ‘Prussia,’” Douglas objected. “She is the German Empire.”

  “But I refer to all of the southeast Baltic as Prussia!” Mycroft objected.

  “Nonsense. You called Austria ‘Austria’ the entire time that we were there.”

  “Britain has her flaws, Douglas… but she is our home. Within a few short months she faces financial ruin. The pound sterling may be the lingua franca of global currency now, but that can change in an instant. Prussia—sorry, ‘Germany’—could gain preeminence, or possibly so could the United States.”

  “The United States are hardly a factor in the world. That smacks less of prescience and more of paranoia.”
<
br />   “I will not see this land in a war with ‘the German Empire,’ not in my lifetime,” Mycroft muttered.

  Douglas sighed. For a man who claimed to see the big picture, Mycroft was strangely myopic when it came to Britannia. He had tried, over the years, to persuade him to take a less martial view, but it was futile.

  “Let us return,” Douglas said instead, “to the small ‘puzzle’ you referred to, regarding Ai Lin.”

  “Yes. Although as a betrothed woman she is under their protection, Miss Lin does not reside with the Shi family, but in a rented room in a boarding house for young ladies in Stafford Terrace, which she uses only at night.”

  “What?” Douglas said.

  “Unheard of, yes? Stranger still, during the day she can be found, along with her two new bodyguards, at Jennings Rents.”

  “But how can that be? That place is notorious.”

  “The family did not say, nor did I press, for it was clear it brought them pain even to mention it. But answer me this, for you know more of the inner workings of the Orient than I: would Bingwen Shi’s disappearance reflect badly on his family?”

  Douglas nodded. “Very badly. It might not be ‘fair’ to our way of looking at it, but to theirs, ill luck attaches to people for a reason. It is not random. After his disappearance, Ai Lin could have easily broken their engagement, with the excuse that she would not become a part of such an unlucky family.”

  Mycroft sighed. “Based on that, I surmise that she agreed to remain in this match-gone-sour because her father was keen on it; and only after they agreed to accept her own rather unconventional stipulations, including where she would live and where she would spend her days. What say you? Do we begin first thing tomorrow?”

  “I would drink to it,” Douglas replied, “but I am afraid I have rather had enough.”

  “Then I suppose a handshake must serve,” Mycroft suggested with a smile.

  17

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MYCROFT AND Douglas found themselves inside a commodious brougham, courtesy of the Queen, and on their way to Kensington High Street, site of Jennings Buildings, also known as Jennings Rents. Just east of Kensington Square, Jennings was a rookery so woebegone that the dreaded Seven Dials of Covent Garden, thought to be the epitome of London’s wretched refuse, would surely be a step up. And Douglas’s homely Nickolus House, which lay ‘in the consumptive heart’ of Devil’s Acre, as Mycroft had once said of it, was in contrast to Jennings a veritable palace.